230 EIVEEBY 



As you near the great cave you see a mammoth de- 

 pression, nothing less than a broad, oval valley 

 which holds entire farms, and which has no outlet 

 save through the bottom. In England these depres- 

 sions would be called punch-bowls; and though they 

 know well in Kentucky what punch is made of, and 

 can furnish the main ingredient of superb quality, 

 and in quantity that would quite fill some of these 

 grassy basins, yet I do not know that they apply 

 this term to them. But in the good old times be- 

 fore the war, when the spirit of politics ran much 

 higher than now, these punch-bowls and the forests 

 about them were the frequent scenes of happy and 

 convivial gatherings. Under the great trees the po- 

 litical orators held forth; a whole ox would be roasted 

 to feed the hungry crowd, and something stronger 

 than punch flowed freely. One farmer showed us 

 in our walk where Crittenden and Breckinridge 

 had frequently held forth, but the grass had long 

 been growing over the ashes where the ox had been 

 roasted. 



What a land for picnics and open-air meetings! 

 The look of it suggested something more large and 

 leisurely than the stress and hurry of our American 

 life. What was there about it that made me think 

 of Walter Scott and the age of romance and chiv- 

 alry 1 and of Eobin Hood and his adventurous band 

 under the greenwood tree ? Probably it was those 

 stately, open forests, with their clear, grassy vistas 

 where a tournament might be held, and those superb 

 breeds of horses wandering through them upon which 



